Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (23 page)

A large shadow fell over her. She looked up, shielding her eyes, and saw a small shape blocking the sun. It circled, growing larger and larger as it descended, and Jaina felt a smile curve her lips as she waved to Kalecgos.

There were fewer areas for him to land since the arrival of so many troops, and she saw him veer off toward the sandy beaches of Dreadmurk Shore. Jaina began to walk toward the gates—closed and guarded constantly now—and impatiently waved for them to be opened. She hurried over the hills to the shore, dodging the many large, slow-moving turtles that trundled in and out of the ocean.

The sandy spit was not a true beach but a narrow area upon which Kalecgos landed very carefully. He transformed into his half-elven form as Jaina hastened up. Jaina slowed as she approached him, suddenly aware that her impulsive, rather girlish decision to quicken her pace was quite unseemly in a woman of her age and position. Her cheeks were hot, whether from embarrassment or exertion, she couldn’t tell.

His smile at the sight of her lit up his handsome face, and she felt hope rise in her as she clasped his outstretched hands. “You found it?”

Kalec’s smile faltered. “Unfortunately, no. It’s still behaving far too erratically for me to properly trace.”

She winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said, “for all of us.”

“As am I. But tell me… you seem distressed. Are the talks not going well? I would think with so many wise advisors, you would have figured out how to beat the Horde, send them home to their
mothers, and convince them to take up knitting and adopting kittens.”

She had to laugh at that. “We are indeed fortunate to have so many who are so experienced. But… that might be the problem.”

Kalec glanced back toward the gates of Theramore. “Must you hasten to return?”

“I have a little time.”

He squeezed her hands and dropped one, still holding the other, and indicated that they should walk down the beach a ways. “Tell me,” was all he said.

“They are… very warlike.”

“They
are
generals.”

Jaina waved a hand in frustration, wondering as she did so why she continued to hold on to Kalec’s hand as they walked. “Of course, but—there is not just the grim necessity of war. For many of them, it’s personal. And I know I should have expected that too. But… you know my history, Kalec. I lost my father and my brother to the Horde. I chose not to follow his path, but to strive for peace. If anyone should be bitter and hateful, it should be me. Yet I hear the things some of them call the Horde—insulting, cruel terms—and I feel so much regret. I want to defend my home, yes. I want to drive the Horde back, so that they aren’t an immediate threat. But I don’t want to—to gut them, or mount their heads on pikes!”

“No one could blame you overmuch if you did,” Kalec said.

“But I don’t! I don’t…” She fell silent, searching for the right words. “My father didn’t just want to win. He hated the orcs. He wanted to crush them. Wipe them off the face of Azeroth. And so do some of these generals.” She looked up at Kalecgos. His face was in profile to hers, his features clean and straight as if they had been drawn by a few perfect strokes of an artist’s pen, his brow furrowed as he listened with deep attention even as his gaze stayed on the ground to avoid missteps for either of them. Feeling her regarding him, he turned to look at her. She hadn’t realized just how intensely
blue
his eyes were.

“You loved them very much,” Kalec said gently. “Your father, Daelin, and your brother, Derek.”

“Of course I did,” Jaina said. She suddenly couldn’t look into those kind blue eyes and instead glanced down at her booted feet, moving slowly across the sand and driftwood. “I felt… very guilty when they died.”

“Your father perished at the hand of an orc, and you later became great friends with Thrall. And your brother,” he said, his voice even softer and turning sad, “was slain by one of the red dragons the orcs rode.”

“And now I am friends with a dragon,” Jaina said, attempting to lighten the moment. Kalec smiled a little, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“And you wonder what your father would think of your choices now,” Kalec said. Jaina nodded, stunned by how well he seemed to understand. “Do you think there was any merit to his beliefs?”

“No,” Jaina said, shaking her blond head. “But it is difficult—hearing the same hate-filled rhetoric now. It’s… like an echo of the past. And I don’t think I was expecting or prepared to hear it. But how can I tell them that their anger and pain are wrong, when they have seen so much and lost so many?”

“It is not their anger or pain that distresses you,” Kalec replied. “No one can say that you have not had more than your fair share of both. You do not agree with the conclusion they have drawn from their experiences. There is nothing wrong with disagreeing. But do you think their hatred will make them unreliable commanders in battle?”

Jaina considered the question, then said, “No.”

“Then I believe it likely that they do not think your propensity toward peace would affect your ability to fight and defend your city.”

“So—it doesn’t matter. How they feel, how I feel?”

“It matters a great deal. But you are all in agreement that the city must not fall. And for the moment, that is what matters most.”

There was something about the way he said this, an urgency that seemed quite separate from the topic of conversation, that made her pause and look up at him quizzically. “Kalec… I know it’s vital that you locate the Focusing Iris. I didn’t expect you to return if you did so—indeed, that you’d even return at all. Why
did
you come back?”

The question, which she had thought would be simple, seemed to rattle him. He didn’t answer at once, nor did he meet her gaze, looking away as if at something she couldn’t see. She waited patiently. At length, he turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his.

“I had a choice as well. I could continue to follow the Focusing Iris, hoping, likely futilely, that it would come to a stop. Or I could return here and tell you that I stand ready to help you defend Theramore.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out for a moment. “Kalec… that is very kind of you, but—this should not be any of your concern. You need to find the Focusing Iris.”

“Do not think I have forgotten the duty to my flight,” he told her. “I will keep searching until the last possible moment. But then, Jaina Proudmoore—if you, mage that you are, will have a blue dragon as your ally in this coming battle… have one you shall.”

Gratitude and fresh hope made Jaina feel a little weak. She clung tightly to Kalec’s hands as he gazed down at her. She couldn’t even think of the words to thank him. Her heart felt full and happy in a way that seemed as though it should be familiar. She dismissed that at once. Kalecgos was the leader of the blue dragonflight. She knew from their talks that he was an “odd one,” as he had often phrased it. This was no more than his quirky interest in the younger races’ affairs. She did not permit herself to think it could possibly be anything else. Light knew, she had never been a good judge of men. Yet… why then did he continue to hold her hands, his fingers warm and strong as they closed protectively over hers?

“Theramore and the Alliance will be forever grateful,” she managed to say, unable to meet his eyes.

He placed a forefinger under her sharp chin, tilting her face up so she was forced to look at him.

“I do not do this for the Alliance, or for Theramore,” Kalec said gently. “I do this for Theramore’s lady.” Then, as if he felt he had said too much, he stepped back quickly. “I must resume my search, but I will not be far,” he said, sobering. “I will return before the Horde arrives. This, I swear.”

He pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, then retreated several paces in order to shift into his mighty dragon form. The great blue lowered his massive head almost to the ground, a few feet from Jaina, in a courtly draconic bow. Then Kalecgos leaped skyward.

Jaina watched him go, slowly curling trembling fingers closed over her palm, as if to protect the kiss that still lingered there.

•   •   •

At long last, the orders came down.

The Horde was on the march.

Campsites, inhabited by impatient soldiers for too long, were eagerly and swiftly struck. Weapons, refletched or sharpened in an effort to while away the boredom and restlessness of enforced inactivity, were loaded into quivers, sheathed, or otherwise prepared to taste Alliance blood. Armor, glinting in the red light of dawn or rendered supple with oil, was donned, and the Horde began to move.

Like beasts straining at the lead, at first the separate divisions seemed to jockey for position, but Garrosh appeared to have expected such a desire. The Kor’kron, led by Malkorok, rode their great black wolves in between each section. Accompanying the orcs were drummers, who pounded out a steady marching rhythm. Gradually the anticipatory chaos calmed and each group—orcs in the forefront, followed by tauren, trolls, Forsaken, and blood elves, with goblins and their various nefarious contraptions interspersed throughout—began to fall into step.

The very earth seemed to tremble beneath so many marching to the thrumming sounds of the war drums—drums that had, in battles past, unsettled the enemy long before the mighty Horde was even glimpsed. The Alliance liked to think of the members of the Horde as “primitive,” so that they might think of themselves as “civilized” and, thus, superior. But what dwarf, safe in his halls of stone, knew what it was like to feast upon the fallen foe as a Forsaken did? What human, in his complacency, could be so lost in battle lust that, minutes later, he would find himself blinking blood out of his eyes, his
voice hoarse with screams as he stood over the corpse of his enemy? What little gnome had tasted the joy of seeing the spirits of her ancestors fight alongside her in a spectral echo of the very real battle?

None.

This was the Horde. This was its glory. Beneath feet bare and shod and hoofed and two-toed, the ground yielded to them as they marched. Muscles moved beneath taut green or blue or brown or pale pink skin or fur; throats were opened in song. Spear and sword, bow and blade, were already out and ready to strike.

The vast wave flowed south toward Theramore, thousands strong, with a single purpose.

To fight, and perhaps to die, with all honor and glory.

For the Horde.

•   •   •

It made no logical sense, and Kalecgos was too wise not to know it, but nonetheless, his parting from Jaina filled the dragon with new hope. The surprise and happiness on her face as he kissed her hand—not daring anything more, not yet—made him see the world with new eyes. He had spoken of the joy of the humans; now he truly felt that he could taste it himself.

Theramore would stand against the Horde; he knew it. The arrogance that was Garrosh would be exposed for the Horde to see. Wiser heads would come to the negotiating table—Baine, perhaps, or Vol’jin—and a new era could begin.

All things were possible, if Jaina Proudmoore felt as he did. And Kalec dared hope it was so.

As if his very ebullience had willed it into being, the hitherto random motions of the Focusing Iris slowed and all but ceased. Kalecgos paused, beating his wings strongly as he hovered, extending his magical senses.

It had slowed… and it was
close
. Closer than he had ever sensed it. There—it was coming from the north. Swiftly he dropped, veered, and headed with a renewed sense of purpose in that direction,
following the trail. His eyes were fastened on the ground, and Kalec realized with a sudden, sickening jolt that his joyful anticipation of victory was terrifyingly premature.

The Horde was on the move.

•   •   •

“They are appeased,” said Malkorok as he rode beside his warchief.

“Of course they are,” Garrosh replied, looking proudly at the vast numbers steadily marching on Theramore. “They are warriors. They crave Alliance blood. I have held them in check. Now their thirst is even greater—and my plan is even more secure.” He thought of Baine and Vol’jin. Garrosh had learned his lesson with Cairne’s death, and while the troll and tauren leaders irritated him to no end, he knew it would be foolishness to challenge either of them to ritual combat. They were loved and respected by their people, and both did have true loyalty to the Horde, if not to Garrosh individually. Soon, they would come to heel and acknowledge that his tactics had been beyond brilliant—indeed, that he had achieved more for the Horde than any leader, including the adored Thrall, had ever done.

Then they would honor him as well as the Horde, and he would show his magnanimity to them as he had with Captain Briln. Garrosh permitted a pleased, rather smug smile to curve his lips.

Suddenly there was a great hue and cry. Everyone was pointing skyward and shouting. Garrosh squinted against the already-bright sunlight and saw a black silhouette. It was long and sleek and—

“Dragon!” he roared. “Bring it down!”

Even as he shouted, the wind riders were attacking. The Horde had an aerial front as well, composed not only of the beloved wyverns of the orcs, but bats, dragonhawks, and other creatures domesticated and used for their unique abilities. The dragon dove as it came under attack, flying irregularly to avoid huge polearms, thrown spears, and the sting of dozens of arrows, all doubtless targeting the leviathan’s sensitive eyes. It opened its mouth. A wyvern and his rider halted, encased in a sudden sheet of—

“Ice!” cried Garrosh. He threw back his head and laughed, even as the unfortunate wind rider and mount plummeted like a stone to the earth. He clapped Malkorok on the back. “Ice!” he repeated. “Behold, Malkorok, it is a
blue
dragon who attacks us!”

The Horde members who surrounded him did not know why he laughed, but it fueled them nonetheless. Those on the ground cheered on their embattled comrades in the sky, who harried the dragon as sparrows harry a hawk, while they set up ballistae and catapults and loaded cannons. All were now pointing skyward.

Garrosh, giddy with pleasure, raced among his people, shouting encouragement. It was he who gave the order to fire a flaming, pointed bolt almost vertically, and he who led the cheers when it was clear from the blue’s erratic movements that the bolt had struck home.